


Efficacious

by anathemagerminabunt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Military Fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/pseuds/anathemagerminabunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Cleaning is tedious. Repetitive. Dull. Yet John insists upon it, so Sherlock agrees to watch him do so with minimal complaining.</i><br/>In which Sherlock "helps" John clean, finds a box of military items, and sexiness occurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Efficacious

**Author's Note:**

> This is for toomerrymaiden for the johnlockchallenges fic exchange. The prompt was 'on your knees, soldier'.

Cleaning is tedious. Repetitive. Dull. Yet John insists upon it, so Sherlock agrees to watch him do so with minimal complaining.

“This is monotonous, John,” he announces, sprawled across John's bed as he watches the man remove various boxes from his closet in order to sort through them. “How can you stand it?”

“I don't know why you're complaining.” John groans, dragging the last box out into the open. “You're not doing anything.” Dropping it beside the bed, he straightens and stretches, back popping. “I'm surprised you're not jumping at the opportunity to go through all of my things.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock springs to his feet, pulling a box closer towards himself and opening it with an unabashed look of glee in his eyes. He pulls the lid off and carelessly tosses it aside, hands diving in to rifle through the contents. He has struck gold-- inside, packed with painful precision, sit various pairs of fatigues, boots, medals, and, waiting gloriously at the bottom of the box, dog-tags.

The John from before their meeting is fairly straightforward to Sherlock; a tumultuous childhood and fairly ordinary time at uni. But his time in the military, the single-most experience that led to John becoming _his_ John, is delightfully a mystery to Sherlock. He knows next to nothing about this portion of John's life that culminated in being shot, and it is a puzzle that he continues to relish.

He has found a treasure trove.

Sherlock sharply inhales, holding his breath for a few beats before letting it out slowly. One step at a time, first one object then the next, do not rush, do not overload--

“What've you found?” John asks, craning his head around to peer over his shoulder. At the sight of Sherlock's hands greedily clutching a manual on command and staff procedures, he hesitates. “Ah. I'm not sure that's-- maybe leave that one alone, alright?”

“John...”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes briefly. Eventually he nods and waves his assent. “Fine, fine, yes. Have at it. Just don't... don't do that thing you always do.”

Sherlock snaps his head up, pulled from the reverie this find has dropped him into. “What? What thing? I don't do a thing.” He narrows his eyes. “What thing?”

John's lips quirk and he says, “Don't play innocent, you know exactly what thing. That _thing_ where you read an entire history of a person's life from their clothes and their books, and it's like you can see right through them. It's disconcerting and I don't want my-- my time in the army cheapened by—”

“I wouldn't cheapen it,” Sherlock quietly interrupts, casting his gaze downward. “I wouldn't.” His hurt and wounded persona is half an act and he's pretty sure they're both aware that John's aware of that fact, but it's only half. The other half-- the sincerity behind Sherlock's pursed lips-- is what gets him the result he wants.

“No,” John says, eyes softening. “No, you're right. You wouldn't.” He shrugs, turning back to the box of old jumpers before him. “Get your fill of deducing, then. I won't stop you.”

Sherlock beams, turning to the objects laid out around him.

He starts on the fatigue trousers ( _size thirty-two, wear in the knees from excessive kneeling, small tear from repeatedly catching his boot on the inner right side_ ), moves on to the jacket ( _Captain, obvious, made officer upon enlisting, tear near the pocket from storing various knives and assorted surgical utensils, creases in the jacket from repeated rolling of the sleeves_ ), and lingers over the boots ( _size seven, wear on the inner left instep from small knee injury never reported, frayed laces sent as part of a care package from his sister no from his aunt, old blood stains that don't belong to him_ ). He thumbs through the books and manuals that accompany the rest of the gear, pausing for a moment or two over the care, upkeep, and assembly of a pistol, and finally reaches into the lowest recesses of the box to drag out the true prize.

Dog-tags. Small and circular, the embossed words spelling out John's name, service number, blood-type, and other information firm and solid beneath the scrape of Sherlock's thumb. He smiles, feeling out each individual letter, closing his eyes as he does so. A sudden urge overcomes him and before he really thinks about it, Sherlock slips the chain over his head and around his own neck. The feeling of the cool steel again his throat and chest sends a spike of something undefinable through him. He opens his eyes.

“Enjoying yourself?” John asks, turning around after setting a handful of folded clothes into a growing pile. “Learned all about my military-- ah.” Having risen to his feet while speaking, John freezes in place, eyes widening, pupils dilating ( _interesting_ ), the slight tremor of his hand fading into stony stillness. “Ah, that's-- you found my dog-tags.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Problem? They were in the box.”

“Yeah, I just didn't... you put them on.”

“Oh.” _Obvious, should have realized, he doesn't want the reminder, seeing them on brings back memories better left alone--_ Sherlock lifts his hand to the chain, long fingers curling around it as he begins to pull it off. “I apologize. I didn't realize that my wearing them would have such an effect.”

“No, it's... fine.” John swallows visibly. “It's really fine. It's just been a long time since I've seen those, let alone around another person's neck. I... it's fine.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” With a slight lift of the corner of his mouth, Sherlock states, “You're aroused. Seeing me like this, in dog-tags-- in _your_ dog-tags, as though they were a property statement-- this arouses you.”

“It doesn't-- what? No. No.” John flinches. “Okay, maybe a little, but that's not...” With a sigh, he deflates, crossing the room to sit on the bed, close enough to Sherlock that his legs touch the other man's arm. “I hate when you do that.”

Sherlock raises his eyes slowly. “When I do what?”

“When you know what I'm thinking and feeling before I even do. Just once I'd like a chance to figure out what's going on in my own head before you.”

“Ah.” A pause. “I'd apologize, John, but we both know it would be insincere.”

John chuckles, a deep and rich sound. “You're right, as usual. And you were right about, um, earlier, when you said I was aroused. But it's more than that.”

Sensing a chance to learn yet another piece of the masterfully endless puzzle that is John, Sherlock brightens, back elongating as he twists around to meet John's eyes. “Oh?”

“Alright, calm down. I'll tell you, there's no need to look like a dog having a bone waved in its face.”

“A bone? Interesting choice of words, considering the arousal you're exhibiting.”

John ignores him. For a few long minutes, he sits, breathing rhythmically as his fingers lightly tap against his knee. Eventually, he nods and says, “There's a lot about that time of my life that I want to forget. A lot. I watched people die, Sherlock, friends of mine. Right in front of my own eyes, in my arms even. And there was nothing I could do. I watched civilians, innocent people, get blown to bits-- there's a lot of horrible stuff that I tried to get rid of.” He gives a sardonic smile. “I haven't always succeeded.”

“Your nightmares.” Sherlock's mind immediately flashes to any of the countless nights spent watching John flail and cry out in his sleep, knowing there was little he could do to soothe the man. He makes a fist, nails digging into his palms. He hates those nights.

“Yeah, the nightmares.” With a deep inhalation, he continues, “But it wasn't all like that. There were some things that were good things. Memories I treasure. When I was useful, when I saved a man, times when I just sat around with the others in my unit passing jokes and drinking coffee that was like tar. And--” Here John falters, darting a glance at Sherlock. “And Bill.”

“Bill.” Sherlock hisses, smacking a hand across his thigh. _Stupid, stupid!_ He should have seen this long before. All those hinting comments on the blog, the way John never visits the man despite their history together, the way he avoids talking about Bill when he mentions his time in Afghanistan, the mysteriously and carefully worded speech about his sexual history. _Should have known, how could you miss--_ “You were lovers.”

“What?” John sputters, eyes growing wide. “No, nothing like that. Well, yes, exactly like that, but it wasn't _lovers_. It wasn't like...” He waves a hand between the two of them. “It was just company and sex. It could get lonely out there, even surrounded by all those people. Painfully-- well, you found ways of dealing with it. We just happened to find each other, that's all.”

Sherlock nods, lips pressed tightly together as he thinks. After a beat or two, he points out, “And yet you felt the need to hide it.”

John reddens. “I was ashamed. Not of the sex, god no, but the way I acted toward Bill after I arrived back in London was just horrible. The things I said, Sherlock. I was angry, hurt, lost, and I took it all out on him. He never took it to heart, I don't think. But I couldn't stand knowing I acted like that.”

“I see.” Sherlock looks down at the dog-tags still around his neck, at the way they rest in his hand when he reaches for the cool metal. “And I reminded you of that. Of him.”

“Something like that. Yeah.”

“And you were... aroused by the memories of your time spent with Murray?” Sherlock acts, doing his best to keep the petulant tone out of his voice. He fails.

John's face lights with a small smile, his left hand darting out to soothingly run through Sherlock's curls. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

“Jealous? Me? Of course not, don't be daft. What do I have to be jealous of?”

“Mmm.” Clearly, John does not believe him. Damn. “Well, if you were, I would tell you that you have nothing to worry about, because that was a long time ago. As for my interest, as it were, it's about fifteen percent memories and eighty-five percent seeing you with my tags around your neck.” He lightly pulls on the chain. “Maybe you're right. Maybe it is a symbol of possession. Whatever it is, it's... definitely appealing.”

Sherlock straightens, his hard drive whirling into action. “Perhaps it's that. I hold a different theory.”

Warily, John echoes, “A theory?”

“One of many,” Sherlock assures him. “It might be the ownership the tags seem to suggest, or it might be a connection formed in your mind years ago, thanks to your dalliances with Murray. It's difficult to know for sure... Captain.”

The words hang there between them, the air in the room thickening as the silence stretches.

John clears his throat, croaking, “No. Absolutely not, Sherlock. I do not have a thing for the military, okay? Trust me on that one. If I had a kink, I would know about it. I would definitely know about it before you. So just forget about that and let me get back to my sorting.”

Sherlock smirks, watching John stand and make his way back to the pile of boxes along the furthest wall. He bides his time, waiting until John's attention is half-diverted to press his point. “Is that an order, then?”

“Sherlock,” John warns. “ _No_.” He sounds less sure of himself this time around.

“I've been told to report to you,” Sherlock says in mock confusion, half-kidding and fully willing to take this as far as it will go. “Disciplinary action is required for--”

John stiffens, back going rigid. He grips the closet door frame with white knuckles, turning so that only half his unreadable expression is visible over his shoulder. A tremor runs through him, and after a few moments of stretching, aching silence, he firmly states, “On your knees, soldier.”

A grin creeps across Sherlock's lips as he strides into the middle of the room to sink onto his knees. “Yes... sir,” he belatedly agrees. “Anything you say, Captain.”

John whirls around then and the look on his face is _astounding_. It nearly floors Sherlock, to see the intensity of arousal and desire written there, the sheer want and yearning threaded into John's every minute muscle twitch. He pants, overcome by the sight before him, and rests his hands on his knees to grip tightly. Electricity seems to crackle between them.

“Good,” John murmurs. “Very good, Private. Eager to please, aren't you?” He steps forward, firm and direct in his every movement. Once within arms' reach, John lifts a finger to stroke deliberately along Sherlock's jawline. Pushing on his chin, he tilts Sherlock's head up and back. “So very eager and willing, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock breathes, his own pulse starting to race as a flush creeps over his chest and neck.

“You'd do anything a superior told you to do, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

John's eyes flash. “You need disciplinary action, is that correct? You need to be punished.” Bringing his thumb to Sherlock's lips, he traces the outline for a minute or two before shoving the digit inside. Surprised, Sherlock's eyes widen a tiny bit as his tongue immediately springs into action, flicking and licking John's thumb as he sucks hard. John's eyes are half-lidded. “Yes, good, very good. God, look at you. So bloody eager.”

Sherlock chances a nod, stroking the flat of his tongue over the pad of John's thumb.

“That's right,” John assures him. He pulls his thumb free with a loud, wet _pop_ , turning dark eyes on Sherlock and threading a hand into his hair. With a gentle yank, he orders, “Pull me out. Private.”

Sherlock is well aware of what new levels this game of theirs will add to the relationship between them. It's going to make John realize things, and it's going to complicate matters beyond just sexually. There are undertones here, things they are both saying without saying, things they can never take back. Sherlock knows all of this.

He doesn't care.

Instead, he reaches itching fingers toward John's flies and makes quick work of the button and zipper of his jeans. John is hard beneath all that fabric, as hard as Sherlock has ever felt him, and it makes his own mouth begin to water at the thought of getting his lips around that. Sliding the palm of his hand over the bulge of John's cock, Sherlock allows himself a few seconds of simple appreciation before slipping inside the man's pants and pulling them out of the way. John's cock bobs mere inches from him, pleasingly thick and leaking every so often from the slit.

Sherlock groans.

“Yes,” John encourages, holding him still by the curls in his hand. “Yes, you want that, don't you? You're practically begging for it.”

Sherlock nods, straining forward and brushing his lips against the head.

“Christ!”

“Please, sir,” Sherlock pleads, peering up at John through his eyelashes, an expression he knows never fails to make John weak in the knees. “Please, I want to. I need to. I need your cock.”

“Oh god.” John closes his eyes tightly for a few beats, eventually opening them to push the head of his cock against Sherlock's lips, smearing precome all over them. “Oh god, if you knew what you do to me--” Without warning, he suddenly thrusts forward and into Sherlock's mouth. Not far enough to even begin to choke him, but far enough that his mouth is full and gratifyingly occupied.

Sherlock moans.

“That's right, c'mon now,” John gasps, pulling back and thrusting forward with a mild, easy-going rhythm. “Take it. God, you love this, don't you. Fuck, you should see what you look like. You look like you were made to be on your knees, sucking cock.”

Sherlock swallows, reveling in the sounds this pulls from John. He licks up John's cock with a broad swipe, teasing the foreskin and curling his tongue around the ridge of the head before toying with the fraenulum. With the way John's hips are jerking spasmodically forward, it takes Sherlock a few tries to set up any sort of repetition. After awhile, the only sounds filling the room are those of John's groans and swears, and the wet, hot sounds of Sherlock's mouth devouring John.

“Oh fuck, that's good,” John manages, tugging lightly on the chain of the dog-tags still hanging from Sherlock's neck. “Sherlock, you--”

With an extra lick there and a nip here, Sherlock takes John in as deep as he can, until his nose is just lightly pressing against the wiry curls of John's pubic hair. He swallows and hums, and John nearly screams.

It's a wonderful pastime for Sherlock, on his knees before John with the man deep down his throat. There's something about the steady, firm feel of him, the musky smell, the way that Sherlock knows that without fail _this_ action will cause _this_ reaction, the way that John grips at him and begs for more, more, always more. It is fantastically rote and predictable, and as though Sherlock has John dangling from strings, ready to dance.

He hums again.

John shouts, meaningless sounds jumbling together as his hips start to pick up speed. Free hand coming around to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, he hunches over the man and thrusts desperately, long, rough thrusts that leave Sherlock gasping through his nose and saliva trickling down his chin. It is glorious, rapturous, beautiful, and heavenly all at once. Sherlock's mind is nearly blank, save for the throb of _John_ that accompanies every pulse of the cock pushing deep into him.

Unable to resist, Sherlock sneaks a hand down to rub himself through his trousers. He groans loudly at the contact, an act that serves to send John crying out, tugging almost painfully on Sherlock's hair as he pants, “Going to-- oh god, I'm gonna-- fuck, I'm coming, oh god, _oh god_.”

Sherlock can't help it when his eyes roll back into his head. The sight of John hovering above him on unsteady legs, yelling out his pleasure, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth part in a wide, surprised 'oh'-- it does something to Sherlock, something he can't even begin to categorize or qualify. The hot flood of semen into his mouth is almost too much, but he manages to swallow most of it down before gently licking and kissing John clean. As John begins to make soft sounds of discomfort, he pulls away, carefully letting John's cock fall from his mouth.

“Well,” he says after a long moment. “I believe that proves my theory.”

“Shut up.”

“Did you not enjoy it? Because every indication--”

“Shut _up_.” John hobbles over to the bed, clothing still undone and his cock still hanging out, and falls gratefully onto the mattress. “Jesus, that. Oh god, that was messed up.”

Sherlock shrugs. “A military kink is hardly unusual. I would safely say that tens of thousands of people share--”

“Sherlock.” John's voice is warm, but firm, not unlike his Captain's voice.

“Yes?”

“Stop talking and come over here. Come lay down.” John pats a spot near him, sluggishly shifting closer to the wall. “Just... just don't say anything for awhile and when I can see again, I'll take care of that rather impressive tent you're pitching, okay?”

Sherlock smiles despite himself. Crawling into the bed, he nods, fingering the edge of the dog-tags. “Okay... _sir_.”

“Oh, fuck,” John groans, arching his neck and pressing closer to Sherlock. “If this kills me, I forbid you to cover up the murder.”

“Agreed,” says Sherlock breathlessly, watching John's hand creep closer and closer to where he wants it most. “Agreed.”


End file.
